


Wake

by asexysteve



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Gen, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light Comfort, Vomiting (not sexy)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 22:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14603475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexysteve/pseuds/asexysteve
Summary: It wakes to new masters.Bucky, post-cryo.





	Wake

**Author's Note:**

> There was no beta, no proof-reading, so if you notice anything, please let me know. 
> 
> Just an excuse for me to play with disoriented and confused Bucky after he woke up in Shuri's lab. Something between freezing him and his becoming the White Wolf.

It's trembling when the door opens. It's not surprising that it doesn't recognize the faces around him, it often doesn't when it wakes from cryo. It is surprising that they're all dark skinned. It's never worked for anyone who wasn't white. It's an interesting development. 

A woman approaches, hands held placatingly in front of her. The men and women around her treat her with respect, polite deference to her behavior. It watches them, standing close but not too close. Protective of her, like she's some queen. She's beautiful: long black hair braided into an elaborate updo that highlights her youth and her beauty. She wears bright colors, a yellow shirt over a white undershirt with a white skirt. She's pure, clean and beautiful. He can't stop staring at her.

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” she says softly in a heavily accented voice. “You're safe. It is 2017 and you're in Wakanda. Do you understand?”

It's still shivering. And it’s pretty sure it's going to make a mess in a minute, but hopefully the handlers will recognize that the gross after effects of cryo are rapidly approaching. It shakes its head negatively. It's never given a name or place. It's all useless information until it has to perform it's required mission. Rolling to the side, it's abruptly made aware of the fact that it must have failed it’s last mission horribly. 

He's missing his arm. 

It heaves itself off of the side of the bed (why had he been laid out on a bed in the first place?) and into the nearest corner it can find. It’s whole arm covers it’s ragged and wet hair, clinging to the strands as it pants in terror. They'll torture it for the expense of the arm. Beat it down and wear it out, maybe even loan it’s body out to make money to cover the costs. 

It can't see the men and women anymore. Can't hear the ambient discussions that filled the curvature of the room. It's in trouble, can feel the creeping reality in the bones, a history it can't vividly remember but one that is, nonetheless, deeply ingrained. 

“Sergeant Barnes,” the beautiful queen murmurs again. “My name is Shuri, and I’ve been helping you,” her melodic voice fills the air. She sounds patient, kind. “Come here, let me have a look at you,” she orders softly after what feels like an eternity if quiet. 

It shivers as it lowers the hand, it’s eyes darting to her big eyes and away again. It has just managed to get itself kneeling obediently before her when it’s body finally gives in to the queasiness and pain it's ever familiar with. 

It vomits on the ground in front of it, down it’s white shirt and over it’s white pants. It’s covered in it, and the puddle in front of it spreads slowly. She's going to be touched by the proof that it's just disgusting, she's going to get dirty and he croaks a cry in her direction. 

Shuri, it's new queen, was already in motion, curses slipping from her tongue in a language it doesn't recognize. She's got a towel in one hand and a robe in the other as she stands above it, patiently waiting to make sure he's finished. 

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, bending forward to press its forehead to the ground, heedless of the vomit. “I’m sorry,” it begs. 

Shuri makes a tutting sound before strong arms pull it up and away from the mess. It isn't Shuri holding it, but a man undeniably related to her. He's familiar, but not in any concrete fashion. “T’challa, put him by the tub. We need to clean him up.” 

It won't stop begging for forgiveness, it’s body failing it as it is carried, unable to move under its own power. They'll beat it for this weakness, but it can't make the body cooperate. 

“Sergeant Barnes,” the man murmurs in that same thick accent. “You do not need to apologize. I’m going to help you clean yourself up,” he orders as he sets the shivering and useless and disgusting body in a plastic chair within a large tub. 

“T’Challa,” Shuri calls. “Be easy. He's not here yet.” 

T'Challa nods. “Sergeant Barnes, I’m going to take your clothes off. We need to wipe the vomit and residue off of you.” 

It nods at the other man, understands what he means. Nudity means sex. It is good at that, can make it so T'Challa will ensure Shuri continues to be kind to him. 

The thought feels out of place, inappropriate, but he can't let go of it. It's how they kept him. Used him. 

It's familiar, even if something it doesn't understand is saying that it's wrong. 

It is passive as T’Challa’s hands work the shirt up it’s chest and over the filthy head. As it's moved to its feet and those strong hands come to it’s waist. “Can you undress for me?” 

It nods and brings it’s single hand to T'Challa’s, pushing dark fingers out of the way gently. It doesn't make demands, is obedient and careful. It unties the sleep pants, and pushes them and the boxers underneath down pale legs. Stepping out of them as they lay pooled at its feet, it looks up expectantly at the other man. 

It knows what should come next. But this man, T’Challa, is continuing to defy expectations. It should have been beaten as soon as it vomited in front of that queen that has awakened it.

It stands there, waiting for the next orders or for the man to get naked and demand his entitled use of the asset’s body. 

“Get in the tub, Sergeant,” T’Challa orders softly, his accented voice precise in his enunciation, and his hand gentle on its shoulder. 

He is not a sergeant, but it recognizes that the order was directed at it so it steps into the tub. It doesn't flinch when the cold water starts to pour from the spigot, puddling around its feet. It knows how to deal with this. Knows how to be good even when the water bites at its skin. 

It gasps when the hot water mingles with the cold, warm water filling the bottom of the tub, curling around its feet. The asset doesn't get warm water, it's a luxury not to be wasted. 

There is a hand shower, and it doesn't remember it being turned on, but the water sprays the asset gently, warm and comfortable. It closes its eyes and brings the remaining hand around to its stomach, clenching fingers in naked skin as it waits. Waits for the punishment that must surely come. 

“Easy,” T’Challa’s deep voice murmurs. He runs a hand down its back and up again, a comforting gesture. One it doesn't deserve. The asset has been damaged by it's own carelessness, the asset has been made inoperable. It should be punished. 

A soft whimper escapes its clenched lips and it curls in on itself even further. It wants to beg for punishment, but they always laughed when they'd been able to reduce the asset to that. And they'd always gone so much harder on it. 

“You are safe here,” T’Challa promises. 

“Are you done yet?” Shuri’s voice calls as she wanders into the small bathroom. 

It drops painfully to its knees and covers its genitals with its hand. Its not supposed to put itself on display unless commanded. And never for it’s female superiors.

“Shuri,” T’Challa chastises, with a single word he conveys all he means. She answers him in a language he doesn't understand before she leaves them alone. “Come, Sergeant. Let me bathe you.” He pulls up on the remaining arm and there's no other option but to obey the silent command and stand. 

T’Challa is quick, but thorough. He derives no pleasure from cleaning this useless body. But his strong fingers feel divine in its hair, longer than it should be. The asset closes its eyes and gives in to the pleasure of the fingers dancing across its skull, working shampoo, and then water through the thick strands. 

He tries not to show too much pleasure in the process, lest it become something else. 

When T’Challa deems it clean, he turns the water off and steps back to grab a large towel. It doesn't feel shaky or weak anymore, and the nausea is settling. It's confused by T'Challa's holding the towel out expectantly, it's usually required to drip dry or is blown dry. It shivers unexpectedly when he drapes the towel over it’s shoulders. 

“Dry yourself thoroughly,” T'Challa orders. “I’ll return shortly with clothes.” 

It obeys, because that's what it does. And it waits patiently for him to return. 

He returns with clothes that are colourful and look comfortable. It isn't going to be dressed in the heavy black leather it's used to. It doesn't say anything as soft fabric is draped over its head and adjusted around its body. He's handed soft underwear and waits for T'Challa to step back so it can pull them on, one of the other man's hands on its shoulder, bracing so it wouldn't fall. 

Standing upright, swathed in deep reds and blues, it feels more like a person. He feels like a man. 

“Come Sergeant Barnes,” Shuri's voice calls to it. “Let me take you to where you can rest.” 

It nods, and follows her on legs that tremble. The asset feels better than it can ever recall feeling after waking up. Perhaps these new masters will be better, if it can be good. They've forgiven it for transgressions it couldn't control, and have dressed it after cleaning it. 

A thin hand wraps around it's elbow, guidance and support. It looks at Shuri, the queen who is definitely it's new master, especially with the way T'Challa deferred to her. “Come. You can rest,” she repeats. 

It breathes deeply. And sighs out contentedly as it follows her, foolishly trusting in her.


End file.
